Athanatos
by MistWraith
Summary: He hadn’t known what to make of it. Or rather, he hadn’t wanted to admit what it might mean, and so he’d pushed it down, forced himself to forget about it again. Until now. Now, he couldn’t pretend any longer, couldn’t keep lying to himself. One-shot.


**Disclaimer**: Nope, not mine. Definitely not making a penny.

**A/N**: Just a short short that grew from something that happened at the end of "Yellow Fever." This story takes place after "Sex & Violence."

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**ATHANATOS**

BY: **MistWraith**

It had been a rough hunt, like the two before it. Maybe the evil bastards were getting better. Or maybe, _they_ were getting worse. The rhythms had been off ever since he had returned from the Pit but now, now they were practically non-existent. Since the Siren. Since the words that could not be called back.

Since he learned Sam felt the same way—no, even more strongly—about him as Sam had seemed to feel at the Roosevelt Asylum. Pathetic and mindless Sammy had said back then, to which Dean could now add weak, chickenshit and stupid. Oh, yeah, and whiner. _Hey, Sammy, you know the answer you're going to get the next time you push me to spill my guts to you? Take a guess, College Boy._

His lips tightened. He couldn't even admit to himself how much Sam's words had hurt, how hard they'd hit home. Then again, Sam had a punch like the kick of a mule; he'd just never thought it would be used against _him_. _And admit it, one reason the fucking monster was able to lure you in was because it felt damned good to have someone who seemed to like you just as you are, who seemed to respect and trust you. Sammy was right. You __**are**__ pathetic!_

Sam had been both distant and hovering since the Siren. Okay, if he were being honest, the distance between them had been increasing since his return, but now the gap was looking more and more like the Grand Canyon. Not that he really knew how the Grand Canyon looked. It was still just a name on his bucket list.

And hovering? Oh, yeah. Driving-Dean-to-distraction hovering. He knew Sam felt guilty about what he'd said but at the same time, Dean could see Sam resented the fact that there was a reason _to_ feel guilty. And it was leading to anger. Or maybe, Dean should say, _more_ anger. It had taken a while after his return for Dean to see the fury roiling below Sam's cool surface—and Dean blamed himself for being too wrapped up in his own feelings to catch on sooner. He wasn't sure if it would have helped anything but maybe--if he'd only realized how angry Sam was at him for the deal, at Lilith, at the world, even at the angels for not giving their Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval to his actions--_maybe_ Dean could have found a way to defuse it.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair wearily. As he did, his eyes fell on the rip in his jacket. It seemed small, which is why Dean had been able to pass it off to Sam as nothing, but underneath…He cocked his head, listening. The water of the shower was still running, so he could take a look without Sammy finding out.

Because there was nothing there to see, except the blood that told of the wound that _had_ been there. _And try explaining __**that**__ to Sam!_ He couldn't even explain it to himself. Well, maybe he could, but his mind skittered away from it.

He hadn't meant to keep it hidden, not initially. It's just that, when all the memories of Hell came rushing back after the ghost sickness, after Lilith—okay, after his _hallucination_ of Lilith—had told him he remembered and then suddenly he did, he was so overwhelmed by them everything else fled. Until after that hunt with those poor, tormented children. A few days later, he and Sam had taken down a Black Dog—there seemed to be more of them around lately—and he'd been gashed. By the time they had finished the Dog off and burned the remains, there had been nothing to show he had ever been injured. Sam kept on insisting he take a look, he was _sure_ Dean had been hurt and could Dean just stop being such an ass just for once? but Dean had kept fobbing him off until, in disgust, Sam had stormed out saying that if Dean was as fine as he said he was, then Sam could afford to take a walk.

Even then, Dean had known Sam wasn't really walking anywhere except to a car driven by Ruby.

When he'd studied the healed wound, it had all come back to him. He remembered the three of them, Sam, Bobby and himself, standing over the body of the sheriff, after Sam and Bobby had come back from taking care of poor Luther. The sheriff was still stone cold dead, still showing where he had ripped his own arms to shreds trying to stop the itching. Just like all the other victims.

Except one. Him.

He remembered coming to in the hotel room, and he knew that before that, he had been _dead_. As in, stone cold dead. He remembered the sharp taste of fear and failure just before the darkness had descended. Then, suddenly, he wasn't anymore. Dead, that is. Though he was still afraid and a failure. And when he looked at his arms, they were perfect. Not a scratch mark in sight.

He hadn't known what to make of it. Or rather, he hadn't wanted to admit what it might mean, and so he'd pushed it down, forced himself to forget about it again. Until now. Now, he couldn't pretend any longer, couldn't keep lying to himself.

Dean Winchester, Resurrection King. He looked at the torn jacket again. When Castiel had brought him out of Hell and restored his body, yeah, all his previous scars and breaks and whatnot had been removed, but he'd never thought it meant _nothing_ would cause permanent damage or that he—he forced himself to face the thought head on—wouldn't _stay_ dead. At least, not until his mission for God was over. After that, he guessed, all bets were off.

He should be feeling better about this, right? Invincibility, what could be bad about that? Except, maybe, not being quite human anymore. He dropped his head into his hands. It didn't matter that he'd come to see that his father had been wrong. Not everything supernatural was evil. It didn't matter that this…ability was a "gift" from an angel. For Sam, normal was a white picket fence and 2.5 kids.

For Dean, normal was just being _human_. _If I didn't know you, Dean, I would hunt you!_

And when this was all over, the Apocalypse, assuming the right side won, what then? Were all these injuries, the death, just postponed, waiting to hit him like a sledgehammer?

Or worse. Because there _was_ something worse. What if—he stood up abruptly and dug through his duffel, giving a sigh of relief when his fingers closed about the flask that held some cheap Scotch. He started to pull it out then stopped, breathing heavily. It wasn't the answer, it had never been the answer. He shoved it back to the bottom of the bag and sat down heavily on the floor.

He caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall next to the closet and he stared at the maybe-no-longer-one-of-us Dean Winchester staring desperately back at him.

What if it _didn't_ reverse? What if this is who, _what_, he was from now on? Forever. Unable to be hurt. Unable to age. To die. Watching the people he cared about, watching Sammy, grow old and die, while he was doomed to walk the earth endlessly, forever alone.

And just _how_ would that be different from Hell?

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**A/N:** Dean really _did_ look dead in that hotel room before he gave that gasping breath and sat up. My twisted plot bunny took that and ran with it. "Athanatos" is the Greek word for "deathless." Please let me know what you think. Thanks.


End file.
